guilty for lumbering you with that scar, Larten. I shouldn’t have cut so deeply.”
“It is forgotten, Lady,” he smiled gently. “The scar is part of me now. I am proud of it – ” he glared at Vancha “ – even if others can only mock.”
“Still,” she said, “it irks me. I’ve presented you with gifts over the years – such as the collapsible pots and pans – but they haven’t satisfied me.”
“There is no need – ” Mr Crepsley began.
“Shut up and let me finish!” she growled. “I think at last I have a gift which will restore amends. It’s not something you can take, just a little … token.”
Mr Crepsley looked down at the frogs. “I hope you do not mean to give the frogs to me.”
“Not exactly.” She croaked an order to the frogs and they rearranged themselves. “I know Arra Sails was killed in the fighting with the vampaneze six years ago,” she said. Mr Crepsley’s face dropped at the mention of Arra’s name. He’d been very close to her and had taken her death hard.
“She died valiantly,” he said.
“I don’t suppose you kept anything of hers, did you?”
“Such as?”
“A lock of hair, a knife which was dear to her, a scrap of her clothes?”
“Vampires do not indulge in such foolishness,” he said gruffly.
“They should,” Evanna sighed. The frogs stopped moving, she looked down at them, nodded and stepped aside.
“What are–” Mr Crepsley began, then fell silent as his eyes took in the frogs and the huge face spread across their backs.
It was the face of Arra Sails, a section on each frog’s back. The face was perfect in every detail and boasted more colour than the faces on the other frogs – Evanna had worked in yellows, blues and reds, bringing life to its eyes, cheeks, lips and hair. Vampires can’t be photographed – their atoms bounce around in a bizarre way, impossible to capture on film – but this was as close to a photo of Arra Sails as was imaginable.
Mr Crepsley hadn’t moved. His mouth was a tight line across the lower half of his face, but his eyes were filled with warmth, sadness and … love.
“Thank you, Evanna,” he whispered.
“No need,” she smiled softly, then looked around at the rest of us. “I think we should leave him alone a while. Come into the cave.”
Wordlessly we followed her in. Even the normally raucous Vancha March was quiet, pausing only to clasp Mr Crepsley’s left shoulder and squeeze comfortingly. The frogs hopped along after us, except the nine with Arra’s features plastered across their backs. They stayed, held their shape and kept Mr Crepsley company as he gazed sorrowfully at the face of his one-time mate and dwelt at length upon the painful past.
EVANNA HAD prepared a feast for us, but it was all vegetables and fruit – she was a vegetarian and wouldn’t allow anyone to eat meat in her cave. Vancha teased her about it – “Still on the cow-food, Lady?” – but ate his share along with Harkat and me, though he only chose food which hadn’t been cooked.
“How can you eat that?” I asked, revolted, as he tucked into a raw turnip.
“All in the conditioning,” he winked, biting deeply into it. “Yum – a worm!”
Mr Crepsley joined us as we were finishing. He was in a sombre mood for the rest of the night, saying little, staring off into space.
The cave was far more luxurious than the caverns of Vampire Mountain. Evanna had made a real home of it, with soft feather beds, wonderful paintings on the walls and huge candle-lit lamps which cast a rosy glow over everything. There were couches to lie on, fans to cool us, exotic fruit and wine. After so many years of rough living, it seemed like a palace.
As we relaxed and digested the meal, Vancha cleared his throat and broached our reason for being here. “Evanna, we’ve come to discuss – ”
She silenced him with a quick wave of a hand. “We’ll have none of that tonight,” she insisted. “Official business can wait until tomorrow. This is a time for friendship and rest.”
“Very well, Lady. This is your domain and I bow to your wishes.” Lying back, Vancha burped loudly, then looked for somewhere to spit. Evanna tossed a small silver pot at him. “Ah!” he beamed. “A spittoon.” He leant over and spat forcefully into it. There was a slight ‘ping’ and Vancha grunted happily.
“I was cleaning up for days the last time he visited,” Evanna remarked to Harkat and me. “Pools of spit everywhere. Hopefully the spittoon will keep him in order. Now if only there was something for him to flick his nose-pickings into…”
“Are you complaining about me?” Vancha asked.
“Of course not, Sire,” she replied sarcastically. “What woman could object to a man invading her home and covering the floor with mucus?”
“I don’t think of you as a woman, Evanna,” he laughed.
“Oh?” There was ice in her tone. “What do you think of me as?”
“A witch,” he said innocently, then leapt from the couch and raced out of the cave before she cast a spell on him.
Later, when Evanna had regained her sense of humour, Vancha snuck back in to his couch, fluffed up a cushion, stretched out and chewed at a wart on his left palm.
“I thought you only slept on the floor,” I remarked.
“Ordinarily,” he agreed, “but it’d be impolite to refuse another’s hospitality, especially when your host is the Lady of the Wilds.”
I sat up curiously. “Why do you call her a Lady? Is she a princess?”
Vancha’s laughter echoed through the cave. “Do you hear that, Lady? The boy thinks you’re a princess!”
“What’s so strange about that?” she asked, stroking her moustache. “Don’t all princesses look like this?”
“Beneath Paradise, perhaps,” Vancha chuckled. Vampires believe that the souls of good vampires go beyond the stars to Paradise when they die. There isn’t such a thing as hell in vampire mythology – most believe the souls of bad vampires stay trapped on Earth – but occasionally one would refer to a ‘beneath Paradise’.
“No,” Vancha said seriously. “Evanna’s far more important and regal than any mere princess.”
“Why, Vancha,” she cooed, “that was almost flattering.”
“I can flatter when I want,” he said, then broke wind loudly. “And flutter too!”
“Disgusting,” Evanna sneered, but she had a hard time hiding a smile.
“Darren was asking about you on the way here,” Vancha said to Evanna. “We told him nothing of your past. Would you care to fill him in?”
Evanna shook her head. “You tell it, Vancha. I’m not in the mood for story-telling. But keep it short,” she added, as he opened his mouth to begin.
“I will,” he promised.
“And don’t be rude.”
“Lady Evanna!” he gasped. “Am I ever?” Grinning, he ran a hand through his green hair, thought a while, then began in a soft voice which I hadn’t heard him use before. “Heed, children,” he said, then cocked an eyebrow and said in his own voice, “That’s the way to begin a story. Humans start with ‘Once upon a time’, but what do humans know about – ”
“Vancha,”